


Arrow of Slaying

by Sanguiyn



Series: Unholy Alliances [1]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-23
Updated: 2011-05-23
Packaged: 2017-10-19 18:22:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanguiyn/pseuds/Sanguiyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On his way to Vigil's Keep to meet the newly appointed Warden-Commander, Alistair ponders on the events that led them both there and their possible consequences. Inspired by that bizarre dialogue near the start of Awakening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arrow of Slaying

_King Alistair - At least the Hero of Ferelden is still here and alive. That's something, right?  
The Warden - Try not to look so disappointed._

 

 _The Pilgrim Path, Ferelden, 9:32 Dragon_

Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden, believes that people are shaped by their occupation. This is something he has noticed along the years, through experience and observation. Whether occupation forms personality or personality begets occupation he doesn't know (actually, he thinks it is a little bit of both), but the way people act, think, plan and communicate seems to him directly related to the career they have embraced.

He's a good example of this. When he was a warrior – be it a templar or a Grey Warden – he acted like he fought: ramming into problems like a bashing of shield and forcing issues like a piercing of blade. Some times evading, other dodging, but never yielding. Now that he is king, and as such doesn't have to fight as much (doesn't have to fight _at all_ , so far, to be honest), he's less forceful, but firmer. He thinks before acting, or even speaking, has learned to listen to what people say and take their advice into consideration, and he's able to take decisions, now matter how hard.

There are plenty of other examples among his close entourage: Leliana speaks in a flourished language, because she's a bard, an Orlesian one at that; Zevran has a tendency to approach problems from behind because he's an assassin used to spot weak angles; Anora is always strategizing – even in their most intimate moments - always planning ahead. Eamon lectures and lectures (and then lectures some more), but Alistair has a suspicion that it is less an occupational deformation and more a case of being born this way. He probably talked the midwife's ear off about duty and responsibilities even before drawing his first breath.

The most perfect example, though, is the person he believes he knows the best. Mahariel is many things: The Warden, Hero of Ferelden, General of the King's Army, Spokesman for the Dalish, and then some (but always with capital letters). Maker's breath, he's even Warden-Commander for Ferelden, now, and thus Arl of Amaranthine. But he is, above all, an archer. A _master_ archer.

What that means is that everything he does, says or plans is conditioned by that (except, perhaps, the aspect of him that only Zevran can see, and Alistair is perfectly content to leave that alone, even though admittedly a bit jealous, but not of the naughty bits, thank you very much). Someone who knows him well can easily understand and interpret his acts or words: focused on a single point, aware of the many factors that may affect his aim, staying reasonably safe from the target if possible, balanced, steady, patient and determined to hit whatever the cost.

The minute Mahariel set his mind to it, the Archdemon didn't stand a chance.

That also means he rarely goes back on a decision. He may be persuaded, with the right arguments and sometimes the right methods, and keeps an open mind right until things are set in motion, but then he won't budge, just like an arrow can't be recalled once shot. And that's Alistair's main problem at the moment, because all he wants from Mahariel is what the man is less likely to grant: forgiveness.

That's the reason why Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden, is now on his way to Vigil's Keep, walking a muddy road under a pouring rain, in the company of guards and (Maker knows why) _templars_ , following a train of thoughts that he knows isn't totally honest, and trying his best to ignore the enormous high dragon that is roaring in the proverbial room and threatening to put it on fire.

Because Alistair has been an idiot, and he has been petty, and jealous, and naive, and resentful, and childish, and also a tad whiny, and downright horrible, and this has nothing to do with him being a warrior and even less a king.

***

Alistair could say it started seven weeks ago, with _that_ conversation he had with Anora, but he knows it would only be deceiving himself. It started long before, perhaps even before his coronation. That isn't something he likes to dwell upon or even consider, though, so he's decided to stick to that particular moment.

He was lying in bed, Anora in his arms, after a surprisingly satisfying and enthusiastic fulfillment of conjugal duties, all dreamy, relaxed and basking in happy thoughts. With what was probably a very goofy smile on his face, he was savoring the softness of her skin under his hand, the delicate curve of her hip, and the smells... oh the smells. Her perfume, sophisticated and delicate - it comes straight from Val Royeaux for an indecent price - mixed with something much more carnal that reminded him that it's sometimes good to be king when the queen is gorgeous and yes... _experienced_ (the fact that said experience comes from his dead half-brother isn't something Alistair likes to dwell upon either).

Then something, the queen's voice actually, made its sluggish way through the cloud of bliss without quite reaching his brain.

“Hmmm?” was all he could manage.

“You know, I think I'm starting to like our Warden.”

And then, just like that, gone were the cloud and the happy thoughts.

He was used to the Hero of Ferelden being the constant center of all attentions, but, frankly, and as much as said Hero was his friend, having him brutally inserted in this very intimate moment with his wife, and _by_ his wife, was weird, outlandish and just... wrong.

“Shall I send for him for a three-ways, then?”

His tone was cold, but Anora only giggled – _Giggled_. Maker's breath, and wasn't _that_ unnatural? – then looked up at him with those huge blue eyes and that pointy smile, and spoke in that light voice, all of which Alistair had learned not to hate.

“Come now, dear heart, he's too deeply involved in that scandalous affair with the Antivan. I'm sure he's very busy as we speak, if even half the things I've been told are true.”

Alistair must have frowned then, or shown any such sign of disapproval, because she stopped smiling and kissed him lightly on the lips, as though to sooth him. Which sort of worked. A little. She rested her head on his shoulder and started to draw imaginary circles over his stomach, which soothed him a lot more, while starting to locally unsooth him, making him forget why those last words had angered him.

She then smiled again, very softly, and said, “I don't really mind. He's very discreet.”

In hindsight, this should have raised all kind of alarms. He knows Anora highly disapproves of Mahariel's choice of lover. He isn't sure whether it's because they are both men, or because Zevran is Antivan, or a Crow, or even an elf (which would be really stupid and unreasonable, considering), or she simply dislikes him, or them, or some other obscure reason only her own tortuous mind can fathom, but she has a hard time hiding her distaste of that particular couple. Of course, she wouldn't dare being too demonstrative about it in public, but she's never made a secret of it in the privacy of the bedchamber.

But Anora's hand was heading south, seemingly dragging his blood down there along the way, his Warden's appetite definitely kicked in, and the alarms were silenced.

“Anora...” Oh Maker, how he hated this whiny tone of his. “Could we avoid... you know... mentioning other people right now?”

“All I'm saying, dear heart, is... I understand why you have him in such high esteem. Such determination... This is a man who will never falter, never forget his duty. He has purpose, our Warden, and wits. He reminds me a lot of my father.”

It says a lot about Anora's talents that, at that moment, those last words didn't register at all.

***

But they did, eventually. The following morning, Alistair awoke, his sweet queen still asleep by his side, and his very first thought was those words, coming back to him. Hard.

 _Is Mahariel like Loghain?_

No questioning Anora's intentions, or her odd choice of pronouns (“our” Warden? Really?). Only this idea, this dirty, insidious little interrogation which then haunted him for the whole day.

 _Is Mahariel like Loghain?_

Maybe, just _maybe_ , it would have helped if he'd been able to see him that day, to speak with him, exchange a joke or four, banter a bit, even have one of those mini rows... but Mahariel had left Denerim at dawn, Zevran in toes, to investigate a rumored darkspawn attack near Gwaren (of all places); a planned journey that would at least take a fortnight.

So the day turned into a week, then two. All this time, Alistair kept wondering, comparing, mentally making a very organized little list of similarities and common points between his best friend and his late worst enemy. Sadly – and he feels very guilty about it now – the “differences” column was totally ignored.

Loghain had risen from being a near nobody to a high place of power by way of heroism, starting at the very young age of nineteen. So had Mahariel, at the very same age.

Loghain had been the Hero of River Dane. Mahariel was the Hero of Ferelden.

After having worked for the Greater Good for some time, they both had earned their title through a single, epic act that had turned the tide of their respective wars.

Which they had both won.

Loghain had been incredibly dedicated to his cause against the Orlesian occupant. A hatred that had in time turned into obsessive paranoia. Mahariel's vendetta against the darkspawn went way beyond the call of Grey Warden duty. It was _personal_.

They both were charismatic, natural born leaders. And if Mahariel wasn't as brilliant a strategist as Loghain had been – more of a tactician, really – that could change. Loghain had thirty years of experience on him, after all.

Loghain had been very close to the Crown, a close friend of King Maric. Mahariel was Alistair's best friend.

Always placing his sacred cause above all else, Loghain hadn't burdened himself with silly notions of fairness and morality. His choices of alliances had been based on practicality, his courses of action on efficiency, with little to no consideration for collateral damage. Mahariel... Mages in the Circle, werewolves in the Brecilian Forest, dwarves in Orzammar, Isolde in Redcliffe... all of them sacrificed, killed or given a fate worse than death because they had stood between the Warden and the Archdemon (or, in the dwarves case, because they were more useful trapped in mindless golems).

At this point (it was during the second week, and the whole thing had become so invasive that he literally felt nauseous when thinking of it, which was constantly), Alistair started to remember the exchange between his current obsessions at the Landsmeet. “A man is made by the quality of his enemies,” Loghain had said. “I wonder if it's more a compliment to you or me.” Somehow, in Alistair's then poisoned mind, it was twisted into “You and I are alike, Warden.”

At the end of the second week, came the logical conclusion:

Loghain had been considered a hero, an honorable man, indefectibly loyal. Yet, his loyalty had vanished the instant Cailan's goals and methods had steered away from his own. There was nothing Loghain wouldn't have done, no-one he wouldn't have allied with. Or crushed. Or betrayed. _No-one_.

But Alistair simply refused to continue with _that_ line of thoughts, to actually give an answer to _that_ question.

Mahariel returned the following day, with news from the Dalish at Ostagar.

Come to think of it, now, Anora's timing was perfect.

***

Saying Mahariel was upset would be the king of all understatements. He was royally pissed off. Enough to show it, at least, which was rather out of character, especially considering his anger seemed genuine and not some elaborate act to get his way.

Apparently, he'd come straight to see Alistair in his private study, still wearing the same old black studded armor all dented and scratched from the fights he no doubt had fought during his latest travels, covered in road dirt, bow strapped on his back, a living image of the Wild Dalish Hunter pictured in some children books. In his wake, followed Zevran and Leliana (Alistair suddenly realized he hadn't noticed her absence from court, which, he is _now_ realizing, is saying much about his own state of mind, since he always notices her, or the lack of her, _always_ , especially since the very disaster he's currently thinking about, and isn't that one big fat convenient digression and another big fat headache altogether?)

Alistair was watching him carefully, paying more attention to his body language and intonations than to what was actually said, all the time expecting something, anything, coming from his friend that would have looked or sounded like Loghain.

“Your people, lethallin, are killing my people!”

Alistair frowned, slightly confused.

“In Gwaren?”

Mahariel made a sound that suspiciously resembled a growl, and Alistair briefly wondered if some stray werewolf hadn't decided to exact revenge or something and bitten the Hero of Ferelden.

“No, in Ostagar.”

“But weren't you...”

“There wasn't a 'spawn in sight in Gwaren. Not a blighted single one. So, I... we've decided to make a detour to see how that new safe land you've given the Dalish is going and...”

There his voice broke. He looked down and remained silent for a good moment, as though gathering strength. Zevran put a soothing hand on his shoulder, sending a look toward Leliana, who stepped forward to continue the tale (Alistair remembers very clearly the jealousy that pricked him then at the perfect dynamic of those three).

Three Dalish had been killed not far from the settlement in Ostagar. A young hunter, a child and an old woman. They'd been tortured then hanged to the very roof of their brand new house, their bodies left for the ravens to feast upon, until, three days ago, a party of hunters had found them. Mahariel had arrived just in time to see the bodies and attend the funerals.

Alistair listened to her tale, apparently attentive, but all the time still watching Mahariel. Then, after Leliana had finished, he stood up, making some sort of appeasing gesture.

“Isn't it possible that darkspawn...?”

“Darkspawn don't rape,” Mahariel said through clenched teeth, in a low, dangerous voice. “Not topside. I would've sensed darkspawn. I would've smelled their stench. And darkspawn...” He reached for something at his belt. “Darkspawn don't leave _messages_.”

He slapped a very dirty piece of paper against Alistair's chest, staining the finery he was wearing (upon Anora's insistence that he had to at least look the part) with dried blood mixed with some sort of stinky greenish substance Alistair really didn't want to identify.

The paper read 'NIFE-EARS GO AWAI' in big, unsteady capital letters. Not darkspawn then.

And that's when Alistair had that brilliant, _stellar_ idea.

This situation was very unfortunate, even though he couldn't understand why Mahariel was so upset about it, but it was also the perfect opportunity for a loyalty test. If he and his best friend suddenly had diverging interests, which had never happened so far (well, not really, and never with Alistair as the decision maker), what would be Mahariel's reaction? Would he stand by his king, or would he oppose him and eventually betray him to further his own personal agenda? Would Mahariel be Loghain?

“What do you want me to do?”

Right. Said like that, not the best demonstration of king-ish authority or decision making, but it would have to do. Mahariel, of course, took it for granted.

“I want you to send a small company of Denerim's finest to Ostagar to protect my people. I want your guards, the _king_ ’s guards, to be there and show those sh... bastards that you intend to keep your word and stand by the Dalish. That you won't tolerate any more slaughter.”

And thus, because he was a political genius, and knew how to treat his friends and allies, and so, so good at this new king business, Alistair waited a bit, for effect, then replied:

“I can't do that.”

Mahariel looked stunned, as did Zevran and Leliana, the latter taking a step back with a sharp intake of breath as though struck. Alistair thought that it said a lot about who had really commanded so far, who had actually been in charge. Apparently, asking was just a formality, something to follow etiquette, because the king couldn't possibly refuse. Once more, he was reminded of Loghain's words, those about puppeteers and string pulled. This had to end.

Mahariel's gaze turned stormy, which was somewhat fascinating, how the pale green darkened and turned to greenish grey.

“Come again?”

“I can't, and I won't, send troupes to Ostagar over three incidental murders. The crown isn't stable enough to waste any sword or bow. Not even a mabari. The nobility here won't approve of soldiers sent to help the Dalish – granting them land was received badly enough.”

“The nobility can fuck off! Do you have any idea of the amount of coaxing I had to do to prevent my people to simply swoop down on the nearby villages and kill everyone in there? Do you know who leads there now? The acting keeper? Zathrian. You _do_ remember Zathrian, do you not? The paragon of mercy who had me wipe off an entire werewolf tribe?”

Yes, Alistair did remember Zathrian. Vaguely. And he really, really didn't care because he was getting quite angry himself.

“And what did you imagine? That land would be granted, and your people would settle down, and it would be all flowers and rainbows with nice little villages and cities full of enormous trees and why not, _temples_ to your heathen gods, and nobody would bat an eyelash?”

He barely heard Leliana wondering, “Enormous trees?” from behind Mahariel, but she was ignored.

“Oh? Do we have to expect an Exalted March too, now? Did you agree to this so Dalish would be all nicely gathered in a tidy little place for the Chantry to come and eradicate? Massacre our hunters, enslave our craftsmen and herd our keepers into Kinloch Hold? How practical of you!”

“Now you're being unreasonable,” Alistair replied in a tone that, yes, now that he thinks of it, might have been a little bit patronizing and slightly obnoxious. Exactly the kind of tone that would push Mahariel's buttons just so. And it did.

“And you're being a sodding _liar_. You. Promised. Safe. Land!”

“I did no such thing. I promised land, and I gave land. You knew it would be difficult. If you and your people fail to understand that, it's no fault of mine.”

Mahariel made a step forward; for one split second, Alistair thought he was going to punch him straight in the nose, but Zevran behind him put a hand on the small of his back, and it seemed to appease him. He took a deep breath, and his voice was much calmer when he next spoke.

“Lethallin, I beg you, as a friend... If you don't send men, if you do nothing...”

And that, weirdly, and very remotely, reassured Alistair, because this... manipulation, this way to talk to the heart and not the head, _this_ was pure Mahariel. But he was too far gone in his own anger, too determined to prove his authority to back down.

“And as a king, I won't accept.”

“You'll take your war like a king, then?”

Alistair's hopes plummeted. He saw it now, right there. Loghain. Threatening him with war, retaliation and betrayal. Belittling his ability to reign and lead, just as Loghain had belittled Cailan's. He'd been right all along (except he could've listened to that little reasonable voice that told him traitors didn't generally warn beforehand).

“Are you threatening me?” he said coldly.

This appeared to take Mahariel by surprise, which was no small feat in its own right.

“Are you insane?” he replied, looking honestly dumbfounded.

“Whatever. My answer is still no.”

Mahariel cursed in Elvish, which only Leliana seemed to understand, judging by her blushing, then threw his hands in the air in a yielding gesture.

“Ma nuvenin. Have it your way. Enjoy your bloodbath and your precious nobles. And your wife, probably.”

This was so terribly insulting that Alistair was left speechless, without thinking for one moment that it could be a joke, and that only eight months before, he would have considered it so and laughed it off. Anora choosing this precise moment to enter the room only made things worse.

“Is everything all right? I heard shou...”

Mahariel turned to her with a sudden big grin, and Zevran and Leliana exchanged a worried look.

“Ah! Anora. The exact person I wanted to see!”

She raised a delicate eyebrow. “Warden?”

He made a couple strides towards her, still smiling, and Alistair thought he looked like a wolf about to catch his prey.

“Tell me, Your Highness, where do you keep them?”

She looked taken aback, but quickly regained her composure with a smile of her own.

“Where do I keep what, Warden?”

“Our good king's balls. Do you have them hidden away, or is your grip on them so tight that you just can't let go?”

That was it. The last straw. Anora blanched. Leliana breathed a frightened “Mahariel!”, Zevran chuckled, and Alistair, now furious, brought disaster upon himself and possibly many more.

“Enough!”

Mahariel turned back to him, the smile still on his lips, but the defiance in his eyes a blatant proof that he, too, was still very much angry. Not enough to stop Alistair, though.

“You will not speak this way to your queen! You will address your king with deference and show me some respect, elf!”

As soon as the words left his lips, Alistair knew he would have given his very soul to take them back. The last one especially. So small, three little letters, and yet so _noxious_.

The silence that had descended upon the room was deafening, everyone now petrified. Both Anora and Leliana in the exact same pose, hand on the mouth and their eyes wide open, Zevran squinting, his lips set in an expression of pure contempt, and Mahariel...

Thirty years from now, when he gets down into the Deep Roads to die, Alistair will still remember Mahariel's expression at that moment. How hurt he looked, the depth and magnitude of the pain that covered his eyes, his whole face, like a veil. Even his tattoos seemed paler, duller.

Then it vanished, as though something had given in, and everything was intense again. Very sharp, and very, very icy.

“Elfalon halam. Ma dar'u, _shemlen_.”

Alistair hadn't the slightest idea what that meant – except for the last word which he'd heard often enough in their dealings with the Dalish or the Alienage, but the finality of the tone, the way this last word had been spat didn't leave much room for interpretation.

“Mahariel...” he started in the most placating way possible. Trying to speak despite the lump forming in his throat was hard, though.

Mahariel raised a hand to shut him up, nailing him with the iciest look ever, and Alistair finally understood how he managed to intimidate so many people.

This look said, “You say one word, I kill you.”; this look stabbed you in the vitals and left you pinned there to die; this look was so _savage_ that Alistair wondered whether the Archdemon hadn't left a little more than a memory on its slayer's soul. He didn't want to be on the wrong side of this look. Ever. Again.

“Come on, amor,” Zevran said, almost whispering but still mercifully breaking the silence, “let's have something to eat. It's been a long day.”

Everything seemed to resume then, as though time was catching up. Mahariel, Zevran's hand on his shoulder, strode to the door and left with a curt nod to Anora. Leliana shook her head sadly at Alistair, her eyes shining with tears, before following them outside. Anora remained, standing by the doorway, a strange expression on her pretty face that looked like... annoyance? Pity? Guilt?

“Alistair...” she called softly.

“Leave me alone, please. I... Just... leave me alone.”

She nodded and left in turn, closing the door behind her gently. He let himself slowly slide to the floor, sitting on the soft blue carpet, leaning against the desk, and put his head in his hand.

For the first time since... ever, he regretted Morrigan's absence. Had the witch been anywhere in the vicinity, he would have had someone to blame for what had just happened, even though he wasn't quite sure what it was exactly. Only that it was bad. Really, really, really bad, and, as hard as he squinted, he only had himself to blame this time.

***

They say grief is caused by the end of communication with the deceased. If that's true, then Mahariel could've been dead as far as Alistair was concerned.

The following days had passed in a muddy haze of shame, regrets, interrogations and memories, punctuated with pointless royal duties, meaningless conversations and one pleasureless attempt at producing an heir.

Anora, however, had been surprisingly supportive and tactful. She hadn't forced the issue or talked about it or anything. Just been there, someone for him to lean on. Alistair was incredibly grateful for that.

The other surprise had come from Leliana, who had leaned to him one evening at dinner (a sad affair, really, with two of the usual attendants so obviously absent) while he was staring silently at the Empty Seat, had put a light hand on his and whispered, “I know what you feel. It can get better. Come and talk to me, if you want. I've been there”. And though Alistair very much doubted that her “there” was anything like his and hadn't taken her up on the offer, he was still thankful.

Everyone else, once the news had spread – and it had, rather quickly at that – had seemed to enter a contest of “Best Around The Issue Skirter”. Never had Alistair seen so much effort made to avoid mentioning someone.

From Mahariel though, not a word. Not a sign. Not even a blighted message.

Now, sitting behind his royal desk in his royal study, staring at a bunch of royal decrees and royal treaties, and enduring one royally painful run-on lecture from Eamon about the possible consequences of his lack of foresight and political finesse, Alistair wanted to scream.

Orzammar had already been mentioned, as well as Weisshaupt, the Good People of Ferelden, Antiva, West Hills, alienages, Waking Sea, Orlais, the Free Marches and their merry bands of refugees, and the sodding Dalish, all tangled in a web of alliances, support, rebellion, assistance, sedition or downright war that Alistair had lost, or could lose, or will lose, or should prevent, or could regain. All because of a single three-letters word. But, thank the Maker, Eamon didn't know about _that_ little detail.

Alistair barely listened, stopping altogether at the fantasist mention of the Qunari, and only retaining the names because that list was somewhat fascinating. How it all depended on Mahariel's name attached to his, or, to be accurate, on the _Hero of Ferelden_ 's name. Plus, it was sadly amusing. First, he was fairly sure that said Hero didn't give a rat's tail about this political mishmash unless darkspawn were involved. Or maybe Dalish. Second, while Eamon was lamenting over the possible end of the Crown's friendships, Alistair was mourning the possible loss of the one and only true friendship _he'd ever had_.

“You have two priorities,” Eamon (finally!) concluded. “First, you must consider seeking new allies. Maybe resuming the negotiations with Orlais. If things come to worst...”

That got Alistair's attention.

“No! He will never turn on me.”

Eamon let out one of his patented sigh.

“I'm not saying he will, but you don't have the luxury to ignore that possibility. He's still quite young, not the mildest of tempers, some of his associations are... questionable, and he's taken some rash decisions in the past...”

A distant pain had crossed Eamon's features, but Alistair wasn't in a merciful mood.

“Are you trying to get back at him because of Isolde?”

“No! Not at all! We've been over this already. But, Alistair... He's an elf, with a Dalish upbringing...”

“Tell me about it,” Alistair mumbled.

Eamon either didn't ear or pretended he hadn't, and went on, “...and a Grey Warden. It's rather difficult to ascertain where his loyalties lie, or _will_ lie. Your friendship was the only guarantee.”

Alistair's expression must have been particularly stormy, because Eamon cleared his throat and _squirmed_.

“Alistair... There have been precedents. Honorable men, devoted men have turned traitors or enemies. Must I remind you of L...”

Alistair sprung on his feet, livid, his anger fueled by his own guilt.

“Don't say it! Don't you _dare_ say it, or so help me...”

Eamon raised his hands in a placating gesture.

“I only have your best interests in mind, you know that.”

Alistair sat back, somewhat mollified, but not that much.

“No, you only have the _Crown's_ best interests in mind. And the Theirin line's. But that's all right. Next.”

Eamon sighed again.

“Next, and most urgent if I might add, is the question of the General position.”

“What about it?”

“You have to name a new General. Today, if possible.”

“What? No! Absolutely not! Mahariel is General, and I won't be one of those petty despots who give and take positions and titles on a whim. He's earned it!”

“Alistair...”

“We had a disagreement. Duly noted. But it's not the first time and it won't be the last. We've always worked it out in the past! You wouldn't know, you were not there, so you think it's final or something. But it's not, I assure you.”

“Alistair...”

“You all act like he's dead , but you know what? He's not. What next will you ask of me? That I have him executed to prevent a possible problem in some distant future? Oh wait, you can't, he's a Grey Warden. Worse, he's the Hero of Ferelden. Assassinated, then? Well, good luck with that. Ask the Crows how well it worked for them!”

“ _Alistair_...”

“To the Void with that! I will not take that away from him, you hear me? It's high time I stand for myself and remind everyone who is king. And I, the king, refuse! It's my er... _royal_ decision to make.”

“No, it's not, Alistair. He's resigned.”

Alistair got up so fast he almost knocked over his armchair.

“What? Wait... _What_? But when? Why?”

“I believe you know why better than I do. As for when, he came to see me this morning and gave me all the documents and information needed by his replacement. You will also have to find another liaison with the Dalish.”

Alistair was now pacing back and forth, feeling gradually overwhelmed by something close to panic.

“He's resigned from that too? But... but we were supposed to do all those things together. That was the plan. And why didn't he tell me all this himself?”

“I don't know. I understand that he's left the palace immediately after our interview.”

“He's left the palace? Do you know where he went?”

“I believe he was last seen in the Alienage.”

“Good, Good! Maybe I could...”

The last of Eamon's patience seemed to vanish, and he slammed the desk with his open hand, sending several scrolls flying away.

“Maker's _breath,_ Alistair! He's _gone_. Stop denying it. As far as I know, he's cut all links with the Crown, which is why I think he can be dangerous.” He took a deep breath then went on, “Regardless, it's a very clean cut, but it's still a cut, and it's bleeding at the moment. So I need you to...”

Alistair shook his head.

“You're wrong. He hasn't cut links with the Crown. He's cut links with _me_.”

“And how is that different? You need to pull yourself together and deal with the consequences. Properly. You want to be respected as a king? Act like a king! Stop leaning on everyone. Forget the Warden, forget Anora, forget _me_.”

Alistair stared at Eamon, and Eamon stared back. They remained like that, silent, for a long time. Then Alistair clapped his hand and sat back in his armchair.

“Very well. Let's get to work then. First, I want a small company of say... twelve royal guards to leave for the Dalish settlement at Ostagar tomorrow morning and act as a support in case other problems arise.”

Eamon had a very large smile; a rare thing to behold.

“An excellent idea, Your Majesty.”

“Second, what do you think of Fergus Cousland...?”

***

Six days later, Zevran requested an audience with the king. He'd gone through the official channels and asked for a public one, which didn't bode well and was more than a bit irritating. Alistair refused, imposing a semi-private one instead, which was to take place in the royal gardens (the place was Anora's idea, but all the rest was his). He was determined to lead the dance this time, having no doubts about who was really behind this little attempt at manipulation.

The place was indeed a good choice. It was a clear, warm afternoon, with a light breeze bearing the scents of the many young flowers that had recently been planted and were just beginning to bloom. The gardens had been almost totally destroyed during the Battle of Denerim, and Anora had made it her personal mission to have them rebuilt and replanted as soon as possible. The landscapers and gardeners had done a very fine job, but Alistair could do nothing to prevent memories from assaulting him. To relive that desperate race under the blood red sky, those feelings of anguish, hope, urgency and exaltation, all mixed together in a galvanizing cocktail. How _simple_ life had been, then. Them against the darkspawn, and one clear goal in sight.

There, by the new marble fountain, a huge ogre fell by an arrow through the throat. Where now grew a cluster of rose bushes, Wynne freezing a whole group of shrieks and Zevran following suit in perfect synergy, quickly slitting the throats of the hapless monsters one by one. Alistair had killed a hurlock vanguard right over there, one right wicked bastard that one; beheading it in one clean sweep had been extremely satisfying. Under the pretty arbor that didn't exist then, he had witnessed through the excruciating pain of a Crushing Prison spell, Mahariel, covered in foul 'spawn blood, yelling, “Let go of him, you fucking alaslin!”, punctuating each syllable with the shot of an arrow and turning a genlock emissary into a screaming pincushion.

And, on a totally other note, that evening when he had stumbled upon Mahariel and Zevran engaged in a very passionate, heated, extremely _indecent_ kiss, the sight of which had sent him running back into the palace, beet-red from toes to head, mumbling about modesty, propriety, consideration and how they surely did that on purpose just to embarrass him, seeing that it happened _all the blighted time_.

Well, it certainly was a moot point now.

As though to illustrate this, there came Zevran, blond hair impeccably done, elegantly dressed in silk finery – pale green, Alistair noticed, which was surely intentional - walking toward him in long, measured steps, and not smiling, even a little, which was unusual enough to be slightly unsettling.

Zevran stopped five steps from him, bowed with exaggerated deference, then remained there, gaze lowered. The silence stretched for a good thirty seconds before Alistair understood that he was waiting for him to speak first, as etiquette demanded. He wanted to strangle him.

“So?” he finally asked.

“Your Majesty,” Zevran said in a very dry, very neutral and _very_ uncharacteristic tone, “I bring to you a message from the Commander of the Grey.”

Alistair blinked.

“Who?”

Confused didn't even begin to describe how he felt now. The usually extravagant Antivan speaking in monotone was one thing; why the Orlesian Warden-Commander had chosen him – of all people – to bring a message to the king was another one entirely. And when had Zevran gone to Vigil's Keep to get that message, anyway?

“The Warden-Commander for Ferelden,” Zevran not-so-helpfully clarified, “sends his assurance that as acting Arl of Amaranthine...”

Alistair raised a hand, and Zevran shut up immediately. Another wonder, that.

“First, stop talking like you've been made Tranquil or something. Second, it would be very nice of you to actually _make sense_.”

Ah! There it was. The shadow of a smile. A bit too mocking to Alistair's tastes perhaps, but things were getting normal again.

“Ah... I see. There seems to be a little misunderstanding here, yes? Allow me to start again. The Hero of Ferelden, now Warden-Commander, sends his assurance that as acting Arl of Amaranthine he's your loyal vassal...”

“What???”

Zevran sighed.

“Your Majesty, delivering that message is going to prove very difficult if you keep interrupting me. The positions of Warden-Commander and Arl of Amaranthine are linked, are they not? If not, say so. I'll have to go get another message. And you'll have a mess to sort out with Weisshaupt, if I might add.”

Alistair wasn't listening. Everything had just clicked, and it wasn't pleasant.

“How did this happen? Why?”

“When you gave the Arling of Amaranthine to the Wardens, you stated...”

Alistair sort of growled, and Zevran's smile widened.

“Oh, you weren't talking about that. My most humble apologies. Well, I've an answer for that too... ah yes! The Warden-Commander says that it's Wardens business and doesn't concern the King of Ferelden, and that if Your Majesty is not happy, he can take it up with the First Warden.”

“That's what he said?”

“Actually, no. He said, 'Tell him he can kiss my elven arse', but I convinced him that it wasn't a proper way to address a king. Lacking in deference, don't you agree?”

Alistair looked down, feeling suddenly very miserable.

“I'll never hear the end of it, will I?”

“No, Your Majesty, believe me, you won't. May I deliver the rest of the message now?”

Alistair made a vague accepting gesture.

“Commander... Amaranthine... loyal vassal. Thus, he humbly asks you to inform your current councilors, and especially the queen, that assassinations are not needed, but should they deem them necessary, they are very much welcome to try.”

“He can't believe that someone from the Fereldan court would...”

Zevran cast him an eloquent amused look.

“Consider whom you're talking to. Should I elaborate?”

“I... see your point. Go on.”

“Last, he reminds Your Majesty that the Commander of the Grey only answers to the First Warden, and that the Crown is not to interfere in Grey Warden matters in any way. Oh, and that the Grey Wardens remain neutral, no matter what. Unless another Blight occurs, in which case all bets are off.”

“Oh _Maker_... Is that all?”

“That is all. Now, if Your Majesty has any questions, I will answer within the limits of my possibilities and willingness. Which is to say, I probably won't.”

“When does he leave?”

“Tomorrow morning, at dawn.”

“Are you going with him?”

Zevran's smile vanished, and his whole stance changed, going from falsely servile to semi-hostile in a blink. That was an expression Alistair had never seen on the assassin – not directed at him, anyway – and it was rather... intimidating.

“Now... Why would you possibly care?”

“I...”

“Never mind. Your queen will probably have spies after us anyway. Might as well save time for the poor sods. We will be traveling together to Amaranthine where I'm to take ship to Ostwick, while he continues to Vigil's Keep. I understand an escort will wait for him there, so he won't be alone.”

“You're going back to Antiva?”

“Why don't you ask your queen in a month or so if you really want an answer to that? And I intend to join him at Vigil's Keep very soon, so don't get any idea.”

“She's really not like that, you know. Anora... She's not the conniving b... person you seem to think she is.”

Zevran laughed.

“Keep telling yourself that, Your Majesty. A man has a right to dream, even a king.” He leaned towards Alistair and whispered, “When your eyes open, though, remember I'm available. For a price.”

Alistair smiled sadly. It reminded him so much of how the assassin used to tease him. He'd never thought he would actually welcome it.

“Zevran... What happened?” he finally asked.

Zevran crossed his arms on his chest.

“Listen, we're not friends. Never been. So far we have... ha, tolerated each other. So why would I reply to that? So you feel better? I think not.”

Alistair nodded in defeat. Zevran cursed softly under his breath, running a hand through his hair and mussing it up in the process.

“You've hurt him, the man I love. Very deeply. You've destroyed any trust left in him. You have no idea of the damage you've done. Did you know that you were the only non-Dalish he's ever called 'lethallin'? Do you even know what that means?”

“I... No. I meant to ask him, but...”

“Of course you don't. It means 'blood brother'. From a Dalish, it means everything. I was very jealous of that, you know. They're proud of their blood, those Dalish; they even wear it on their face! But you didn't realize, because you never asked. Because it isn't about _you_.”

“Now, that's unfair!'”

“You asked a question, I'm answering it, so let me finish. What happened is that he came to you as a friend, and you replied as a king. As a _despot_ , who refuses just because he can. You proved that you are not different from the others; a little human who can't see past the so-called superiority of his race. I don't know what got into you, and I don't care, but it was the very first favor he's ever asked of you, and you refused. How many have you asked of him? Oh, and that old woman that was killed? It was Ashalle. How's that for 'incidental murders'?”

“Ashalle?”

Funny how more and more things made sense, now. Mahariel's guardian.

“Please, tell me you know who she was. I really don't want to commit a regicide. Well, I _do_ want to, but it wouldn't be good for my health, yes?”

“Of course I know who she was! I remember her from the coronation. She was such a sweet old lady, and he was so happy to see her! How could anyone...?”

“He was the one who convinced her to stay and settle there instead of returning to the clan. Imagine how he feels after that.”

“And how is that my fault? I didn't know that was her! None of you told me! Why didn't you tell me?”

And why couldn't he ask _Mahariel_ that instead of Zevran, who would always take his lover's side no matter what, down to utter dishonesty. Case in point...

“Because he asked us not to. He was afraid you would overreact on his behalf and send a whole army. He wanted things to be solved smoothly. More the fool he, yes?”

At this point, Alistair gave up. He was tired and slightly nauseous, and anyway, it all boiled down to a single thing, really.

“You do hate me, don't you?”

“Again, why do you care? What's the hate of an elven whoreson to you? Nah... I despise you, as a person, a little. As a king, only time will tell. Speaking of which... food for thoughts, my dear monarch: Why, among all the Dalish at Ostagar, was Ashalle the chosen victim? A little riddle for you to pass the time.”

He winked, smiled, and he was old Zevran again. Alistair had that strange thought that he would miss him.

“Now I think it's time for me to go home to my Warden. My work is done here, and we have a long day tomorrow. With your leave.”

He bowed and made to leave, but, even though he already had a lot to process, Alistair wasn't quite finished yet.

“One last thing!”

Zevran turned back to him, an interrogative eyebrow raised.

“That thing he said to me... in Elvish, before he... That thing he said, what was it?”

Zevran smiled, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Ah, yes! I thought you would want to know that. In truth, I was surprised you didn't ask. Well, as you may recall, I couldn't speak Elvish if my life had depended on it – ha, well, maybe if my life _had_ depended on it, I would, but it never happened. I've learned a little of it, recently, though. Still learning. Wouldn't want to miss on the dirty talk, yes?”

Alistair closed his eyes very tightly, wishing away the blush he could feel creeping up his face. Talks of Mahariel and Zevran's private life had never been good. Now even less so.

“And?”

“Do you know what “Ir'shem” means? “Ma'isala ar'in”? No? Ah, your loss, Your Majesty, you could teach it to your queen. It's a sweet, sweet sound in the middle of lovemaking. Anyway, what he said to _you_? I didn't know. So I had to ask Leliana. This woman is incredible! The things she knows... It's like a walking library, only with long, fine legs, and such a pair of lovely... eyes.”

“Zevran, please...”

“Good! You're picking up on the Elvish thing. The tone, it's there. The meaning too. The words? Not so much. But I believe I've tortured you enough. A petty revenge is petty, after all.”

He made a show of extracting a scroll from his tunic and slowly unfolded it.

“Mmmm... let's see... 'Elfalon halam. Ma dar'u, shemlen.' Leliana couldn't be certain, because there are dialects and whatnot, but she's learned most of her Elvish from him, so she thinks it's accurate. Overall, it means 'Our friendship is over. You're alone, human.' There you have it, Your Majesty.”

With that, he bowed deeply, winked, then left with a little smile. Alistair would have given his sword hand to wipe it off his face.

Then he realized that during the whole conversation, they never had pronounced Mahariel's name. Not a single time. For some reason, that, more than anything else, saddened him deeply.

***

“You've been very quiet, Your Majesty.”

The templar's voice tears him from the memories like a boat hook hauling a drowning man out of the water. She has a nice voice, warm and sweet, in direct contrast with her perpetual pinched expression, her pointy features and that harsh glint Alistair has seen too many times burning in the eyes of her fellowmen. She's a Hunter, currently following an apostate's trail with two of her men, and has naturally joined the royal escort on their journey to Highever, where the king is to officially present Teyrn Fergus Cousland with his new position.

Alistair had hoped he'd shake her off when he announced the “unplanned” detour via Vigil's Keep, but she's stayed, one of her leads pointing there as well, apparently. And, for all the details he's gathered about her, he can't for the life of him remember her name. Lyrock? Arlock? Hurlock? Nah...

“Well, you know how it's like, Ser...” he says with a smile.

“Rylock, Your Majesty,” she helpfully provides. But doesn't smile. She never does.

Not that he cares, but the rain, the mud, the loneliness, the weight of that ridiculous suit of armor he has to wear when on official travels, the anxiety rising and gradually threatening to overwhelm him... he could do with a smile to enlighten the mood. He really should have asked Leliana to come with him.

“We'll be reaching Vigil's Keep anon,” she adds. “It is... auspicious that the Hero of Ferelden is in charge there now.”

Alistair winces, but she doesn't seem to notice and goes on.

“With Your Majesty there with me, I can be assured I will be handed the apostate without difficulty anyway, but The Hero of Ferelden has proven his favorable stance towards the Order more than once, despite being a Grey Warden.”

Alistair is at a loss regarding that last jab at the Wardens, but is very tempted to explain to that stuck-up shrew the reasons behind the 'Hero of Ferelden's' support of the Annulment during the Blight, which had nothing to do with the _Templars_ and everything with Morrigan's propaganda against the _Circle_ , and how propaganda works so well in the sack (he sometimes wonders what would have happened if they had met Zevran earlier). As far as he knows, mages and the threat they pose are very low on Mahariel's list of priorities. How the templar – and her Order - can consider the man as being pro-Chantry is beyond him. What with him being Dalish, to start with? But he reasons that most of them probably don't even know that last fact, or have conveniently forgotten. He has no doubts that it will come back and bite their collective arse sooner or later.

“You're probably right,” he politely replies, while thinking the exact opposite. He notices in passing that his own ability to lie, whilst still quite new, seems to come more and more easily. Well, he's learning, isn't he? “But your pr... apostate might not be there. Do your other leads point to Highever?”

“They do, Your Majesty, and I'm assured Teyrn Fergus will be amenable to our request. Back in Denerim...”

This is when two things happen, and he stops listening to her completely.

First, it's that particular _pull_ he hasn't felt for a long time now, but hasn't forgotten. It's remote, like an afterthought, like a print, fading but still very much there: Darkspawn.

Then, suddenly revealed after they've walked past a turn in the road, Vigil's Keep comes in sight. It's large, dark and looming, an eclectic construction of towers, ramparts, walls and portcullis, complete with ballistas and loopholes, the Grey Wardens banner flying on top of the central tower. It looks as though it's been built layer upon layer of fortifications along the centuries, and would be quite impressive if it weren't for the partly damaged outer wall, the smashed gate (from _inside_?) and the fact that it's currently partially burning.

“Andraste's flame, what in the Void has happened here?” he says, raising a hand to order the men to stop.

“Is... Is that an ogre?” Ser Rylock doesn't seem so 'assured' now, judging by the tremor in her voice.

He looks towards the direction she points and sees the massive silhouette of a fallen ogre lying in one of the fields that line the road. It's surrounded by other corpses, smaller. The beast has an arrow emerging from its brow. And it suddenly makes sense.

Of course, in time of Thaw, groups of darkspawn stragglers would be roaming the land. Of course, they would be drawn to the Grey Wardens as flies to honey. _Of course_ , Mahariel would be there to take care of them. Darkspawn are unlucky like that.

He now can hear the shouts and calls in the distance, carried by the wind, and is infinitely relieved when none of them sound like those darkspawn victory growls. He listens in, reaching out for the Taint, but either he's really rusty or the darkspawn are really far, because the reply is even fainter than before; a weak impression, gradually decreasing without disappearing completely. As weird as this is, Vigil's Keep seems safe.

How much that safety has cost remains to be seen, though. Even with a dozen Wardens present, there's always the possibility...

“We should move,” he orders to the captain of his escort. “Now.”

The rain chooses this moment to intensify, making seeing what's happening in the keep rather hard, while the noise his own armored men do covers any useful sound coming from there. The closer he is, the more worried he gets, even though he can now distinguish the two soldiers guarding what's left of the gate. He wishes he weren't wearing that blighted armor, weren't followed by a whole company (and three templars), didn't have to keep that damned royal composure both Anora and Eamon are so fond of. He wishes he could run as fast as possible and see for himself.

The sound that reaches him then almost makes him stop again. Someone is laughing. A deep, greasy, raucous laughter he'd recognize any time.

Oghren?

And _then_ he stops.

He sees the dwarf's flaming red hair first, hard to miss even with the rain and the dim light. Then Mahariel, clad in his black armor, dark hair dripping with water, walking in that particular springy fashion that was his 'victory dance' during the Blight while strapping his bow behind his back. He, the dwarf and an unknown tall, blond mage seem deep in conversation (Alistair can make out the words 'allowed', 'boss', 'drunk dwarves' and 'grammar lessons'). Behind them, silent, walk a young woman in heavy armor and a middle-aged man, who currently shakes his head while smiling. Alistair would swear he's seen him somewhere, but can't put his finger on it. They're all covered with blood and gore, which are quickly being washed off by the rain.

Alistair is shocked to realize how much this eclectic group resembles the one _they_ formed during the Blight, down to the easy banter. So much so that the absence of Zevran at Mahariel's side feels aberrant. Relief is replaced by a hint of... pain? Jealousy? No, _disappointment_ , at seeing Mahariel so alive. As shameful as it is, a small (and ugly) part of him was hoping his friend would be at least a little distraught by their recent quarrel, and it stings to see he's apparently the only one affected.

Then his eyes meet Mahariel's, who makes a short pause as he recognizes him before walking to him with a longer stride, not smiling any more.

The moment has come for which Alistair is making this not-so-necessary journey to Highever: the confrontation he's been denied. He's gone over it again and again in his mind since Mahariel has left Denerim, rehearsing what he would say, the excuses, the explanations, the promises. He's spent hours torturing himself over the choice of words, the tone and the attitude. Now he can but brace himself for what's to come.

Despite all he imagined Mahariel would do – from punching him, to yelling at him, to ignoring him, to slap him on the back, to hugging him – what happens then comes as a total surprise.

Mahariel stops five steps from him, puts a knee to the ground, bows his head and says, “Welcome to the Vigil, Your Majesty,” in the most respectful tone Alistair has ever heard him use.

Alistair, stunned, _frozen_ , acknowledges this for what it is: the slaying arrow.

From now on, they are king and subject, and nothing more. Probably even less, in fact, in Mahariel's Dalish-Warden mind. The man has made sure any possibility of recovering their friendship is eradicated, destroyed by this apparent display of loyalty and deference.

After a moment of hesitation, everyone in the little group follow suit, murmuring “King Alistair!” – with the unsurprising exception of Oghren who just stands there, frowning – and Alistair pulls himself together, asking them to “Please, rise.” a little too loudly to his own ear.

He asks for an account of the recent events, and gets a brief summary, punctuated by Warden-Commander's and Your Majesty's. He learns how Mahariel has arrived two days ago to find the keep under attack, of Oghren's imminent Joining (here, Mahariel throws a spit joke at the dwarf, who bursts in laughter and calls him 'tree humper', proof if needed that some things never change, no matter what). The pretty girl is Mhairi, a very eager Warden recruit; the middle-aged man is Seneschal Varel, and Alistair now remembers a Captain Varel back in Ostagar; the mage remains unnamed; the Orlesian Wardens have disappeared or are dead; there are rumors of darkspawn activity all over the Arling.

He doesn't care.

The conversation is almost pleasant and very civilized, even though Alistair has the distinct feeling some details are deliberately kept from him. At some point, he notices that the rain has stopped, and is vaguely aware of the growing restlessness of Ser Rylock at his side, who clears her throats several times, less and less discreetly. She reminds him of an impatient child pulling at her parent’s sleeve, and he's tempted to snap at her with a 'Don't interrupt, the adults are talking!'.

“Something the matter, Ser Rylock?” he asks instead.

“Your Majesty, this man is a dangerous criminal!”

He's confused for a moment, wondering whether she's speaking about Oghren or Mahariel (surely she wouldn't, no matter that she would be somewhat right), or even Seneschal Varel.

“She means me,” the mage says, bowing his head in defeat. He's been so silent so far Alistair has totally forgotten him

“Is that the apostate you were talking about?”

“He is, Your Majesty. I demand he be delivered into my custody immediately.”

If this means he won't have to endure her presence as far as Highever, he's all for it. All he wants now is for the whole excruciating meeting to end, and be on his merry way.

“I don't see why not. Proceed, if you please.”

The mage protests a bit, making a jab about Templars misunderstanding of justice which Alistair finds himself rather agreeing to (not that he would _ever_ say that out loud), but Ser Rylock nails him down like a Mabari gnawing on a bone.

“Silence, mage! You're an apostate, a murderer and a maleficar! You will hang for what you've done!” She turns to Alistair. “With your leave, Your majesty?”

It's all settled, then. Problem solved and whatever crisis nicely averted.

“By all means, Ser R...”

But...

“You seem a little confused, Ser Templar.”

Mahariel has stepped between the mage and said templar, the lightness of his tone belied by the sternness of his expression.

“I... I beg your pardon?”

“Commander.”

“What?”

“I beg your pardon, _Commander_. That's the key word here.”

“You tell her, boss,” Oghren mumbles.

“I am the Warden-Commander. Whether Anders will or will not hang is mine to decide, considering he's a Warden recruit.”

“I am?” The mage – Anders, then – looks more than surprised.

“You are,” Mahariel confirms. “I invoke the Right of Conscription.”

Ser Rylock blanches. “Your Majesty!”

“The Right has been invoked,” Alistair explains in an appeasing tone, “there's nothing I can...”

Mahariel makes one more step toward the templar. “You're pretty dense, aren't you?”

Interrupted. Again. Alistair wonders whether he shouldn't just go stand there in the corner and look royal or something. That would certainly make his life easier. But he understands what Mahariel is doing; he's setting the rules. And this little show is meant for him as much as Ser Rylock.

“I'll make it simple, then, seth'elgar. This...” He embraces the surroundings in a wide gesture, “is Warden territory. He...” He points at the mage, “is a Warden recruit. I...” then at himself, “am the Warden-Commander. You...” and finally at Ser Rylock, “are very much _not_ in your jurisdiction.”

“Your Majesty!!!” She's now livid with indignation. Or is it frustration?

Alistair just opens his hands in a helpless gesture, finding the whole scene now rather entertaining. If this is the last time they ever see each other, this will be a good memory. He's missed Mahariel's antics, and this is a good one. He also can't help thinking that there is a lesson here about how he himself should treat some people.

He's not the only one to enjoy the show, it seems. Oghren is snickering in that special Oghren way, the mage sports a big grin, the seneschal has a whole new respect in his eyes, and the expression on the pretty warrior's face borders adoration. He even hears some of his own men discreetly chuckling behind him.

Ser Rylock, on the other hand, doesn't look the least appreciative, and neither do her men.

“The Order dictates that apostates and maleficarum...”

“The Order has _nothing_ to _dictate_ here. _My_ decision is final. So unless you want to stay and help disposing of the 'spawn carcasses, and risk catching the blight in the process, I kindly suggest you and your men go away. And if you ever find yourself at Kinloch Hold, send my regards to Knight-Commander Graegoir, and be  very happy I don't do it myself and mention how disrespectful of the law some of his templars are.”

Ser Rylock's lips are set in a very thin line, and there are two red angry blotches on her cheekbones. She leans to Mahariel, almost invading his personal space, and he leans back, as though recoiling in disgust. Alistair can't tell whether this is part of the act or genuine.

“It is not over, knife-ears,” she says, not softly enough not to be heard.

“This will be quite enough, serah!” Alistair intervenes, while Oghren emits a long, low whistle.

Mahariel laughs, but the fist at his side is tightly closed.

“You're a very cute little girl,” he says quietly. “Now off you go.”

She abruptly turns away, bows to Alistair and leaves, followed by his men after an instant of hesitation, itself followed by a general moment of silence.

Mahariel breaks it first, to explain to 'Your Majesty' why he can't let him and his men settle within Vigil Keep's walls for the night. Too many corpses, and possible pockets of darkspawn leftovers. Alistair replies that he understands and that the rain having stopped and the day being still young, he will simply carry on to Amaranthine.

He also offers to leave six of his guards as a small replacement for the fallen soldiers of Vigil's Keep, and Mahariel accepts after a slight hesitation, while warning 'Your Majesty' that the road to Highever might prove more perilous than expected, if the rumors of lurking darkspawn are true. Alistair replies he will be careful, but that he thinks he can handle a few darkspawn, even with 'only' eighteen guards left in his escort, half of which are veterans of the Battle of Denerim.

Mahariel then nods, asks Seneschal Varel to see to it that darkspawn corpses are promptly disposed of, lest they blight the land and surrounding fields, bows to Alistair, and leaves after an almost joyous “We have a Joining to perform!” which prompts a “Finally!” from Oghren, a large smile from the pretty warrior and a slightly worried expression from the mage.

Just like that, he's gone. His best friend. The only person for whom he'd have given his own soul without hesitation. Out of Alistair's life probably forever, even though he knows their respective official duties will have them meet again. He can't help thinking all of this was a bit anticlimactic.

He watches them walking to the keep, their retreating back disappearing in the distance. They're talking animatedly, and Alistair catches Oghren's big laughter. He wonders how many of them will be alive in an hour, once the Joining has taken its toll.

And that's the last thought he will give to it. To friendship, and Wardens, and memories, and regrets. In thirty years or so he might reconsider the question, but at the moment, now that it's done, he doesn't feel sad, or angry, or regretful. He's done with grief and what-ifs, and he won't flee himself any more.

He's Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden, and there is still much to be done.

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of what will (hopefully) become a much larger story spawning from the Warden's childhood to post Dragon Age 2. Because I'm aware of how easily such ambitious projects can be abandoned – and because I hate writing fillers with a passion – I've decided to write it as a series of stand-alone one-shots. Each will have its own PoV, length, tone, rating and whatnot, and they won't come in chronological order, but all revolve around the same Warden (although there will be Hawkness too).
> 
> 'Mahariel' is this Warden first name, not last. As a Dalish, he doesn't have one (I just can't figure Dalish with last names). So, technically, in-game he was 'Mahariel Mahariel'. At least, one can give him points for consistency.
> 
> Due to strictly limited PoV, the events related are to be taken with a grain of salt (think 'Varric'). Characters are biased, after all, and they also sometimes contradict themselves. This also means that readers only know what the character knows; for instance, some of the Elvish here isn't translated, because Alistair doesn't know what it means (but it is legit Elvish, I swear *clears throat*. It's constructed from the Elvish page on the Dragon Age wiki).


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